


18

by nowforruin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowforruin/pseuds/nowforruin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to "15" told from Killian's side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	18

**Author's Note:**

> Many requests were made for a companion piece from Killian's side of things, as well as some expanded scenes, so here it is! Warning: it's about twice as long as the first one.

He’s eighteen the first time he meets her – David’s sister with the long, blonde hair and the wide green eyes. There’s something about her that draws him in, something in that sad smile of hers that makes him want to tease her, make her laugh, _really_ laugh, but he seems to unsettle her more than anything.

 

When he asks David about her, the result is narrowed eyes and a cold warning. “My sister has been through enough, Killian. Don’t mess with her.”

 

It’s hard not to take the warning to heart, not to feel bruised by his new friend’s little sense of faith in him, but it’s nothing new. He’s the kid who wears too much black and already has a fair amount of facial hair – he’s not the guy you want hanging around your kid sister.

 

So he ruffles her hair as they leave to go to a concert (she begged David to go, but he got his mom to agree she was too young). Killian doesn’t say anything, because she’s not his sister, and it’s not his family.

 

If it was, he probably wouldn’t want her hanging around him, either.

 

He’s nineteen when his world implodes.

 

It’s been hard enough, all these years without his mother or father, but he’s always had Liam. Liam, who taught him how to ride a bike, how to fish, how to shave, how to talk to girls…Liam takes his own life. Killian can’t help but blame himself – if only he wasn’t such a burden, if only he had let his brother have a more normal life.

 

David sits by his side night after night that summer, drinking beer on his family’s porch. He mostly just listens, but when he does speak, he says the same thing over and over again.

 

It’s not your fault.

 

You couldn’t have stopped it.

 

There aren’t always signs. Liam wanted to protect him. Liam hid his unhappiness from him.

 

Killian nods and keeps drinking. He’s grateful for Emma that summer, her tumble of blonde curls one of the few bright spots in his days. He teases her endlessly, and David lets him, because it’s one of the few things that puts a smile on his face.

 

Or hers.

 

But he’s too broken to try to piece her together when he can barely keep hold of himself. She’s David’s sister – she deserves better than a cobbled together shell of a man.

He’s twenty when David asks (tells) him to come home with him for Thanksgiving. Killian has no intention of leaving the dorms (in spite of the demand from the university that he do so). He tells David as much in the weeks leading up to the holiday. He doesn’t want to burden them with his troubles.

 

It’s the first Thanksgiving without Liam, and all he really wants is to drink too much rum and sleep. It’s what he’s been doing since the semester started, and it’s been keeping him good and numb so far. A holiday with David’s family (with Emma) is going to make him _feel_ again, and he doesn’t want to.

 

It’s too painful.

 

But David wins in the end, pushing his rum-soaked arse into the passenger seat of his beat up pickup with a firm _you’re going_.

 

He’s not entirely sober when they arrive, and the first thing he sees is Emma. She’s always been beautiful, but when David pushes him through the door, she’s standing there in leggings and a sweater, and she’s _gorgeous_. Her curves have filled out, and she’s done something with her hair, something that makes him want to reach out and run his finger through every last strand.

 

His eyes catch hers, and he’s been drinking all day, so maybe he’s imagining it, but there’s a spark there, an _interest_ that makes him think if he slides his hands into her hair like he wants to, she’ll melt into his arms.

 

David’s elbow crashes into his ribs, the jolt of pain breaking his stare. Emma turns away from them, and he’s grateful, because David is scowling most fiercely. “You leave my sister the hell alone,” he growls under his breath, grabbing Killian’s arm and dragging him up the stairs to the guest room.

 

The week is torture. He understands David’s threats – Killian drinks too much and he uses the willing and available women who throw themselves at him to forget his troubles. He wishes he were a better man, a man who David might feel was good enough for his sister, but he’s not.

 

So he does his best to stay away. She lingers with them, and sometimes, when she brushes against him and her cheeks flame with color, he wonders if listening to David is really what he should be doing.

 

But she’s only seventeen, and David is the best (only) friend he’s got.

 

He turns twenty-one. She turns eighteen. She meets a guy David hates, and that makes it a little easier for him, too, because he _hates_ the idea of Emma with anyone that isn’t him.

 

But there is nothing easy about Emma dating some guy he’s positive isn’t good enough for her. He drinks more and more, and when David comes back to the dorm in the foulest of moods and tells him she’s given up college to move in with the guy, it’s everything he can do not to get in his truck and drive up there and _shake_ her.

 

He’s twenty-two and David calls his mother while they’re on their way to grab a pizza. Killian is driving, and when he glances over, David’s face has gone white as a ghost.

 

“Is she okay?” he manages to say, and Killian almost pulls over, because as rapidly as David went white, he’s now turning purple. Killian knows that clenched jaw, the way his free hand is balled into a fist on his thigh. There’s a long pause, and David’s eyes squeeze shut, and Killian has never seen this sort of pain on his friend’s face before.

 

He hangs up, and for one long moment, he’s deathly silent – and then he explodes. His fist connects with the dash, and it’s everything Killian can do to stay in his lane.

 

David doesn’t hit things. That’s Killian’s role. Whatever it is, it’s bad, and that one question – _is she okay -_ means it’s about Emma.

 

“Want to talk about it, mate?” Emma is still a sore subject between them, because Killian is an idiot and David knows it. They’ve shared a lot over the years, and Killian knows Emma is adopted, but he’s never been told what put the sadness in her eyes. David is still protective, and Killian is still too much of a mess.

 

He still has to know she’s all right.

 

“Emma is pregnant.” The words come out through clenched teeth, David holding his bloodied knuckles to his chest protectively. “I think I may have broken my hand.”

 

Killian feels like he’s been sucker punched, the air going out of him entirely. He’s thankful they’re only a minute away from the pizza place, and he pulls into the first spot he sees before turning to David. “ _Pregnant_?”

 

“The bastard got her pregnant and then he left her. She’s back at Mom’s. I could kill him, Killian.” David’s usually calm gaze is burning with rage, and it’s frightening, because David isn’t the one to lose his cool.

 

“Not if I kill him first.” Killian can’t help himself – the words just come out. But David doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him to leave her alone, doesn’t do anything but nod as he stares out into the parking lot.

 

They both drink far more than they should that night.

 

He’s twenty-three when he moves back home, buying a ramshackle cottage by the shore that he’ll slowly fix up. It would be perfect, except Milah doesn’t want to live in it. She wants to stay in Portland.

 

Killian wants her to leave her husband. They discover themselves at an impasse, but he finds if they just don’t speak on the matter, it no longer becomes a point of contention. He drives down to Portland often (she never comes to him) and there’s something about her, something that starts as a stress-relief and turns into something more.

 

But it’s not easy. They fight. There are days he _hates_ her, and he sits on the porch with David ranting and raving about her. He knows he should keep it down, he knows Emma is inside with her baby boy and can probably hear everything he’s saying, but he can’t make himself stop.

 

It shouldn’t be about him, and it shouldn’t be about something as petty as revenge or jealously, but she’s got a child by another man – a man who _wasn’t good to her –_ and he’s never even had a chance.

 

She hurt him. He hurts her back. It’s a tale as old as time.

 

Still, his heart breaks for her, yearns for he. He watches her slowly grow more and more listless, her life a constant whirlwind of Henry and her job at the diner and trying to carve out some semblance of a life for herself.

 

David worries. Killian worries.

 

But nothing changes.

 

He’s twenty-four and Milah is the woman he loves and the woman he hates. They have another fight, a massive blowup that he’s certain will be the end of them, and they don’t talk for a week.

 

He finds his circumstances fortunate the night David calls him, tells him Emma needs a ride. He would go, but he’s promised Mary Margaret this night for weeks, and they’re two hours away. Can Killian possibly go get her?

 

It’s her twenty-first birthday. Killian wishes he could have spent it with her, danced with her, laughed with her, drank with her…but instead her supposed friends from the diner took her out to some awful dive. The only saving grace is that it’s close, but his heart breaks when he finds her curled up on the grimy bathroom floor, clutching her phone in her hands.

 

“You’re all right, love,” he soothes as he gently gathers her into his arms. She’s light – _too light_ – but he cradles her to his chest anyway. It’s the only time he’s ever been this close to her, and it’s not _good_ because she’s drunk and sad, but the fact that he’s getting to hold her like this, even just once…well, it’s his silver-lining to what is chalking up to be an awful night for her.

 

“Careful,” he says softly as he eases her into the seat, reaches across to buckle her in. She smiles at him, the alcohol softening her expression. It’s almost dreamy, the look in her eyes, and she reaches for him, but he’s already moving away.

 

She’s too drunk to have any idea what she’s doing. And god help him, he’s not that kind of man.

 

He carries her to her bed after she passes out in the truck, David’s mother hovering with a small frown. “Is she okay?” she whispers, concern marring her features as she pushing the fine wisps of hair back from Emma’s face.

 

“I’ll stay with her, make sure. On the floor,” he tacks on, just so Mrs. Nolan doesn’t get an impression Killian is up to no good with her daughter. But she just smiles, a measure of relief passing over her as she pats his shoulder.

 

“You’re a good friend, Killian.” She yawns, shuffling toward her own bedroom. “Wake me up if you need to leave.”

 

He’s not going anywhere.

 

He lays her down in her bed after tugging off her shoes, tucking the blankets around her carefully. It’s tempting to crawl in beside her, to wrap his arms around her and hold her through the night, but he _can’t_.

 

Dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers that he has Milah and that Milah would _not_ take kindly to him sleeping in another woman’s bed.

 

He takes his place on the floor, and sleep comes slowly. Every catch in Emma’s breathing has him on alert, but he drifts off eventually.

 

The sun is up and shining brightly when he wakes, and he’s relieved to hear Emma’s steady breaths. It’s not going to be a fun day for her, but the worst is over. He gets stiffly to his feet, bending over her, knowing he should walk away and not quite able to make himself.

 

He sighs, brushing her hair off her face. It’s his own special place in hell as he brushes his lips over her forehead, a tender kiss that he wishes were so much more. Her skin is damp, the alcohol sweating its way out of her system.

 

He pours her a glass of water, fetches a few Advil, and leaves them next to her bed.

 

And then he leaves.

 

He’s twenty-five when she introduces him to Graham. He should like Graham – David does. And what’s not to like? The guy is friendly, and he’s a cop. He’ll protect Emma, and he seems taken with Henry.

 

But she calls Killian her brother, and it should make him feel warm and cozy, but it sends a shard of ice through his heart. Her _brother_.

 

He goes back to Portland that night, drinks too much, and tries to use Milah to forget, because he loves her, too. Not the way he loves Emma, but in a different way where lust is so tangled up in his love for Milah he’s not sure where one ends and the other starts.

 

Milah makes him burn like he’s accidentally laid his land on a hot stove. He _aches_ for Emma.

 

It’s not helping his relationship with David. They’re as close as they’ve ever been, but David is not happy with him. Between Killian’s poor behavior toward Graham, his inability to keep his eyes off Emma when she’s around, and his obsessive relationship with Milah, there’s not a lot David approves of.

 

Killian spends more time in Portland and less time drinking beer on the porch. Besides, he can’t be near Emma and her happy relationship with her happy boyfriend who is kind to her son.

 

It nearly kills him when he finds out she’s moving in with him, that he’s going to be the one to sleep beside her every night, to help her raise her son. Killian hasn’t spent much time with the lad ( _not nearly as much as he wants to_ ) but he somehow feels like he’s lost a piece of his heart he wasn’t even aware he had.

 

But at twenty-six, he would give her his entire heart to soothe her pain. Graham’s death decimates her, and he spends days at the house with David, trying to keep Henry occupied, trying to give Emma her space, trying to _help_ her, but he can’t escape the gut-wrenching sobs.

 

All he wants to do is fold her into his arms, but Emma won’t let anyone touch her.

 

It’s her son that brings her out of it, Henry’s terrified expression when he finds her slumped over the bed, crying so hard her entire body shakes. Overnight, she transforms from grief-stricken to coldly composed, her face a blank slate and smooth as marble.

 

He’s not sure which is worse, the horrifying pain or the icy mask of indifference, but he stands next to her at the funeral, shelters her between his shoulders and David’s. He wants to take her hand, to clasp her fingers with his and tell her _it will be all right_ , but he can’t.

 

Besides, her hands are on her son’s shoulders, and that’s where they should be.

 

She moves into the apartment anyway. Killian offers to come with David to help, because in spite of her carefully constructed appearance, he knows damn well Emma is not okay.

 

So he helps set up Henry’s room, makes the lad laugh, and gives Emma the space she needs to mourn what this place could have been for them. Henry bounces back quickly, but Emma…Emma needs more time.

 

They fall into a routine, David helping, Killian helping, and slowly, the life comes back into Emma’s eyes.

 

He’s twenty-seven when things with Milah finally end in a catastrophic blow out. He hasn’t been entirely sure he wants to be with her for some time, and the constant presence of her husband in their relationship has gotten old over the years, but by the time she’s done hurling insults at him, he feels like he’s been run over.

 

He feels like he’s been left out with the trash, like all these years together have been a complete and total waste.

 

The rum is an old friend, but the rum isn’t the best listener. He’s had just enough to drink that the thought of going to Emma’s, the thought of asking her to listen, seems like a respectable plan. He shouldn’t be driving – he shouldn’t be doing _anything_ but going to bed – but somehow he finds himself knocking on her door anyway.

 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he tells her, stumbling through the door and falling on her couch. He can barely keep his feet under him, and it’s better he barge in than collapse in her doorway. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

 

“What happened?” Her eyes widen with concern as she takes him in, witnesses the full force of his despair. She shuts the door gently, coming to sit beside him on the couch.

 

“Milah left me.” Her brow furrows, and he can see it, the question lurking in her eyes. He doesn’t talk to her about Milah – since Graham died, he’s done his best to avoid talking about any relationship in front of her. “I can’t go to your brother’s,” he explains, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to tell her this, doesn’t want to shame himself even further, but he supposes she’ll find out one way or another. “He…he didn’t approve. He’ll say this was coming.”

 

“I’m sorry, Killian.” She wraps her arm around his shoulders, pulls him down until his head is resting on her shoulder, and runs her fingers through his hair. He’s seen her do this with Henry when the boy isn’t feeling well, and for a brief second, he’s almost glad this has all happened, because the feel of her nails gently dragging through his hair is one of the best feelings he could ask for.

 

But he’s not done telling this story.

 

“She was married. She went back to her husband.”

 

“I know.” Emma sighs softly, and Killian has to stop himself from jerking back to question her. “David told me a few years ago,” she adds on. There’s no judgment in her voice, no question, but he’s having a hard time believing it.  He’s judged himself plenty over the years, and god knows David has too.

 

“You never said anything.”

 

“It wasn’t my place. You loved her. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

 

He wishes she only believed it for herself, because his heart has wanted her from the first day they met. But he’s drunk and here because of another woman, and she’s still recovering from losing Graham. So he lets her pull him down, his head in her lap, and falls asleep to the rhythm of her gentle strokes through his hair.

 

He’s twenty-eight when David gets married. He’s the best man, and Emma isn’t the maid of honor, so she spends the night paired up with one of David’s college friends. He watches as she laughs (that _fake_ laugh that he’s learned to recognize) and dances with the other guy, and he hates himself for it, but all he can think about is walking over there and claiming her for himself.

 

But he can’t. He dances with the maid of honor, and at the end of the night, he goes home with her. She’s blonde and beautiful and willing, and he tells himself he should enjoy this because she’s got a loft apartment without a kid, and _this_ is what he should want.

 

All he thinks about is Emma.

 

They’re getting older. David is married. Killian doesn’t want to ask, but would it really be so bad if he made a go of things with her? There’s always been _something_ between them, a sizzling heat that he knows could consume him if he let it.

 

And since that night he arrived broken on her doorstep, there’s something else. A friendship, a bond of understanding over what it is to have had one’s heart broken so thoroughly.

 

He doesn’t ask. He can’t ask. Emma forever is – forever will be – David’s baby sister. And Killian, well, he’s Killian.

 

But he can’t stop himself from being around her, even if it’s nothing more than her friendship and company. David watches Henry for her a lot when she’s stuck at work, and Killian starts volunteering. He likes the lad, and David’s beginning to get that harried look, the look of a man desperately trying to juggle a wife, a nephew and a sister.

 

Something has to give.

 

Killian has no one but David and Emma and Henry. His house stands empty whether he’s inside it or not.

 

She’s especially late one night, and Henry is getting hungry, so he shrugs and starts rummaging through her kitchen for something quick and easy. He knows Emma – if it weren’t for Henry, the woman would live on food from work and the occasional piece of fruit. But she cares about her son, and with a whispered thanks, he finds a box of pasta and some sauce.

 

He never expects to get the kind of reaction he does out of her.

 

Henry sees her first, tears across the kitchen telling her all about their day and using that ridiculous nickname that makes him want to roll his eyes, only it’s Henry who’s saying it and he loves that kid.

 

“It’s just spaghetti,” he feels the need to tell her, because her eyes are wide and there’s a curious amount of emotion there that can’t just be relief at a hot meal at the end of a long day.

 

She says thank you, leans close, and he has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. It’s too easy to imagine this as their life – her coming home from work, him making dinner with Henry and pulling her into his arms in the middle of the kitchen.

 

He’s so lost in his daydream he doesn’t realize she’s brushed her lips against his cheek until she’s done it. His fingers trail over his skin as he stares at her back, which goes rigid as soon as she starts to walk away.

 

He wants to ask what the kiss was for. He wants to ask for another and another and _another_. But she clearly doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, scooping Henry up into her arms and bouncing around the apartment with him, chattering happily about his day.

 

It’s impossible not to watch her as they eat, as she cleans and he helps, as they put Henry to bed, Emma maintaining a cool distance from him all the while. Killian reads Henry a story, because he _insists_ on _Killy_ reading him his story tonight, and Emma only smiles before kissing her son goodnight.

 

Killian finds her on the couch, an open bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table. She pours silently, handing him his glass and taking a gulp from hers.

 

She still won’t look at him.

 

He lets it go on for longer than he should, because he knows when he says something, there’s a good chance she’s going to reject any possibility of anything. It’s been a long time since Graham died, since she struggled so hard to put herself back together, but to Emma, the wound is still fresh.  

 

He just can’t help himself. He _wants_ her, desperately. And for the first time in a long time, it seems like she might want him too.

 

“Emma,” he says softly, setting the wine glass down untouched.

 

“I can’t.” It’s the barest of whispers, but he can see her knuckles are white where she’s gripping the wine glass. It’s confirmation of what he’s been thinking all night, but he knows not to push her.

 

He nods, kisses her forehead and leaves. He pretends not to notice she stiffens at his touch and doesn’t say a word.

 

He’s twenty-nine and since that night she kissed him on the cheek, he’s tried to stop _wanting_ so bloody much. Mostly, he fails. But he does a better job of keeping his distance, of not lingering when it’s only the two of them alone in her apartment.

 

He knows better than to accept her invitation to the game night she’s planned while Henry stays at a friend’s, tries to get out of it. “It’s a long drive back to my place,” he tells her, gesturing aimlessly in the direction of the shore. “I can’t come over here and drink with you all night and then drive home.”

 

“So crash on the couch,” she says with a shrug. “C’mon, everyone else is coming.”

 

He knows better, but he goes anyway.

 

It’s a rare night Emma gets to let loose anymore, and he watches as her happy, giddy smile returns, the one that’s so rare these days. He pretends not to notice when she gets up to refill her drink and fails to return to her seat, but instead settles next to him.

 

They keep drinking and he stops caring. Emma is warm and soft and next to him, and his arm slips around her waist like he’s done it a thousand times before. He expects her to pull away, but she only leans into him, the softness of her curves pressed to his chest, her thigh against his, and he practically groans with the pangs of lust and desire that rocket through him.

 

It takes all of his self-control to do no more than sit with her curled against him, to continue playing whatever silly board game they’re playing. Their friends start to trickle out, and eventually, it’s just them.

 

He gets up from the floor, his fuzzy brain recognizing the need for a task. If he has a task, he won’t grab Emma, won’t haul her up against him and kiss her senseless like he’s been aching to do for hours (for years). So he starts cleaning, and she starts cleaning, and they’re doing just fine until she trips and pulls him down with her.

 

They crash together, and she’s under him, staring up at him with wide jungle eyes that spark with desire. That’s what makes the decision for him, the _want_ he’s felt for so long mirrored back at him.

 

He kisses her, and she kisses him back, and it is everything he’s dreamed up and more. He knows he should slow down, kiss every inch of her, worship her, because they’ve got all the time in the world to be together, but he _can’t_.

 

She’s just as aggressive, yanking his shirt off, shoving his jeans down his hips and digging her nails into his skin to urge him on. He can’t help the deep groan of satisfaction as he slides into her, years of desire making it a moment he wants to savor, wants to make last forever, but she’s already moving against him and he’s helpless in her arms.

 

He falls asleep sated and more content than he’s ever been in his life, Emma wrapped in his arms under the blanket from her couch. He’s too happy to consider the possibility that Emma won’t feel the same in the morning, that he’ll wake to discover her bedroom door locked and her silence stony.

 

He’s not one to give up so easily, but she doesn’t answer a single text or call. She keeps Henry with her at all times if she sees him, and even when he helps out with watching the lad, she’s ice cold and distant.

 

He sees the walls in her eyes, and every time he does, his heart breaks a little more.

 

He’s thirty, and he _has_ to get over Emma. Things have gotten better between them as the months have slipped by, but she’s still tense, still doesn’t want to be alone with him.

 

David doesn’t know what happened between them. Killian hasn’t said a word, in spite of the many times David has asked. Emma must not be saying anything either, and he can see it, the frustration in David’s eyes, and a part of him is almost glad she’s suffering too, because _this is her fault_.

 

They could be happy together, if she would just let them.

 

He goes to the bar one night, and he tries. He really does. He meets a girl (not a blonde) and she’s cute and she’s fun and she invites him in for a drink. He knows what the invite means, and he goes anyway.

 

And then he slips away in the middle of the night without leaving her so much as a name because _she’s not Emma_.

 

When there’s a banging on his door at two in the morning barely a week later, he almost ignores it. For a split-second, guilt eats at him and he wonders if the girl from the bar has found him, but then he shakes his head at himself, tugging on the first pair of pajama pants he can find.

 

Random girls from bars do not bang on his door like the world is coming to an end in the middle of the night.

 

But Emma does. He hasn’t so much as had the chance to ask what’s wrong, because something is _wrong_ , her eyes wild and her hair snarled, and has she been _crying_?

 

“Are you alone?”

 

It’s a question and an accusation, and he’s too stunned to do anything other than squint at her in the brightness of the porch light saying her name like it will somehow make her explain herself. “Are you all right?” he finally manages to get out, the sleepiness and confusion giving way to real concern.

 

But she only repeats her question, and god help him, there are _tears_ in her eyes. “It’s two in the morning. Of course I’m alone,” he says gently, throwing the door open wider. He’s about to ask her in, to offer her tea or hot chocolate or one of those cookies he keeps around she loves so much, but he doesn’t have the chance.

 

He stumbles back with the force of her weight crashing into him, a grunt of surprise escaping his lips before she’s kissing him, kissing him and molding her body to his like they’ve learned to share a soul.

 

They make it to the bedroom this time, but he remembers the last time, remembers how he didn’t savor it, how he didn’t slow down. He’s not tired at all anymore, and whatever drove her here tonight, the panic he saw in her eyes, it’s given way to a burning desire wrapped in a tender emotion he’s afraid to name – not because he doesn’t want it, but because he is so desperate not to be wrong about it.

 

After, he kisses her shoulder, sweeps her hair back from her face and kisses her mouth, gently. “I love you,” he tells her, and he doesn’t care anymore that he’s said it, that he’s admitted it, because he’s held onto it for far too long. “Gods, Emma, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone. Please don’t leave tonight. Please don’t ever leave.”

 

He’s begging, and he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t care, because she sighs and winds her fingers through his, uses her other hand to cup his jaw and pull him closer. “I love you, too,” she whispers without hesitating, without fear in her eyes.

 

When he wakes up, she’s still asleep beside him, and the sunlight in her hair is a memory he will hold in his heart until the end.

 

She never does tell him why she came knocking at two in the morning, but as their lives effortlessly meld into one, he doesn’t much care.

 

He’s thirty-one when he asks her to _really_ stay.

 

They’re lying in bed, and she’s sighing because she has to get up, go pick up Henry from his friend’s house. It’s the only time they get to stay in this house, the sound of surf outside the windows and the creaky stairs she strangely loves and the sprawling, rickety porch that’s perfect for morning coffee.

 

“You could move in,” he says softly, stroking his fingers up and down her bare arm lazily. She’s snug in his arms, her head on his shoulder, blond hair tickling his chest, and she hums at the words.

 

“That would be lovely.” She sighs, pushing herself on one elbow. “I have to go get Henry.”

 

“Emma…” He curls his fingers around her wrist, gently pulling her back. “I’m serious. You and Henry should move in. I’ve got this whole place and it’s just me, while you two are in that apartment. We could wake up and listen to the ocean, and Henry would have his own room…and we could have mornings like this.” He tugs just a little harder, sending her into his arms where he kisses her, deep, emotion filled kisses that are as much of a plea as his words.

 

She sighs as they separate, but she doesn’t immediately pull away. “You really would want us here? Henry can be a handful sometimes,” she warns, nervousness skittering through her eyes. “Are you _sure_?”

 

“Emma, I love you both. I want you here.”

 

“I need…I need to make sure he’s okay with it. It’s just been him and me for so long, and he’s still young…”

 

“Emma, if you don’t want to-“ She cuts him off, her lips on his and her body pressing insistently against him, bare skin to bare skin that sends shivers down his spine.

 

“I want to,” she tells him, breathless as she pulls away, and it’s another of those snapshots of time he files away in his memory because it’s so perfect. The summer morning light in her eyes, her blond hair wispy around her flushed cheeks, lips darkened from kissing him, but more than anything, that fierce desire he’s come to recognize and love. She softens, reaching for his hand and twining their fingers together. “I just need to make sure Henry is okay.”

 

He nods, and there’s a moment as she gets out of bed, rushing because now she’s late, that he feels his breath catch because he _thinks_ Henry is happy they’re dating, but he doesn’t _know_ if the lad wants to give up being the only man in the house.

 

She brings him over for lunch the next day, and they sit outside on the porch with sandwiches and cool drinks, and Killian can see how nervous Emma is, and maybe he shouldn’t, maybe it’s not his place, but he can’t watch her eat herself alive anymore.

 

“Henry, how would you feel about you and your mom coming to live here?” he asks nonchalantly, his eyes on the waves visible beyond the dunes. He can feel Emma’s eyes on him, can hear her sharp intake of breath, but he ignores her, because there are _many_ things in his life that are all about Emma, but this one moment, this is about Henry.

 

“Mom, are we really moving in?” The sheer excitement in his voice makes Killian grin up at Emma, and he probably should try not to be so damn smug, but he is, because this was her one hesitation, and it’s clear the lad has no problem whatsoever with it.  

 

Emma raises her eyebrow at him, but he can see the happiness, the way she’s fighting a grin of her own as she turns to her son. “Do you want to?” she asks carefully, watching the boy intently for any sign of unhappiness.

 

“Yeah! This place is awesome.”

 

Henry asks a series of rapid-fire questions, questions about the beach and can they always have dinner on the porch, and he still gets his own room, right, and can he paint it whatever color he wants? Killian only chuckles, answering each question in turn, but his hand snakes under the table to find Emma’s, their fingers looped together.

 

He helps her move her things the next weekend, and when he falls asleep that night, thoroughly exhausted from moving boxes of books and toys and furniture, he has Emma in his arms, in his bed, and he’s never been this happy before.

 

He’s thirty-two and his life is damn near perfect. He has Emma and he has Henry, and for a man who never thought family was in the cards for him, he _has_ one.

 

His heart nearly stops with sheer surprise when it happens. Henry’s late for his soccer game, and Emma is scolding him for spending too much time playing video games, and then the lad is running out the door, shouting back over his shoulder.

 

“Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad! See you guys later!”

 

The air seems to stick in his lungs, and he can’t breathe, but Emma is there, sliding her arm around his waist, leaning her cheek to his shoulder and leaning into him, holding him, and he can breathe again.

 

“I didn’t ask him to,” he finally manages to say, his voice almost breaking with emotion. He’s surprised, and he’s touched, and he knows Henry is late, but all he wants to do is call the boy back and hug him, hug him like his father did when he was small and life was still filled with love in their house.

 

“I know.” Emma’s smile is serene, a contented happiness reflecting back at him from the depths of her gorgeously green eyes. “I didn’t either. He just loves you. We’re a family.”

 

She says it so easily, like it’s a fact, like it’s just another part of their day. They live together. Emma likes grilled cheese in the middle of the night. Killian likes his rum warm and straight. Henry likes those disgusting yogurt concoctions out of a tube. They’re a family.

 

He can’t believe he could possibly want anything more, but the thought nags at him again, the desire for a child of his own blood. It’s not that he doesn’t love Henry – he loves Henry nearly as much as he loves Emma. But he wants that experience with her; he wants to watch her belly swell with _his_ child. He wants to hear his child call him _Dad_ for the first time in barely formed syllables.

 

Besides, all young lads need a brother or sister. In spite of how terribly he misses Liam, he wouldn’t give up the memories, even if he knew from the start he would lose his brother far too early, far too young.

 

“Have you ever thought…” He pauses, struggling to get the words just right.  He pulls her closer, cups her jaw with his palm and brushes his thumb along the delicate skin under her eye. He’s terrified to ask, because he already has so much, but hearing Henry say it, it’s brought his _need_ for this to the forefront. “I love Henry, Emma, I do. I can’t have you thinking anything less. But…” His hand slides down her ribs, settles on her stomach, that secret place where life can grow. He can’t make himself ask, can’t risk ruining this beautiful morning if she says no.

 

He gives her the out. He doesn’t ask. He leaves room for her to make a joke and walk away.

 

“Henry would be a great older brother,” she replies softly, twining her fingers with his and holding his gaze captive, the ocean breeze ruffling her hair. He’s been struggling with the emotion of it all since Henry’s breezy exit shot him through the heart, but this, _this_ makes the tears rise in his eyes. He doesn’t want Emma to find him weak, and so he kisses her, kisses her with tenderness and love and promises of everything to come.

 

He’s thirty-three, and he’s been sleeping on the couch because Emma can’t get comfortable without sprawling across the bed, pillows surrounding her. He tried telling her how cute she looked once, but it only earned him a glare.

 

He thinks of it as the _you did this to me_ glare, and he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

 

She was due a week ago. She told him Henry was late too, and she was praying this new child of theirs would have a bit more interest in greeting the world, but he’s Killian’s son too, and he’s already asserting his will.

 

He startles awake to find her standing over him, a look of sheer determination on her face. “Are you all right, love?” he asks gently, blinking in the darkness and rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sits up.

 

“I need you to have sex with me,” she says matter-of-factly, gesturing toward the stairs to their bedroom. “Not out here. Henry could wake up.”

 

He stares at her blankly, utter confusion sweeping through him. It’s not that he doesn’t desire Emma – he still wants that woman with every last cell in his body. But she hasn’t wanted him to touch her lately, uncomfortable with the pregnancy and her body in spite of his efforts to soothe her.

 

Not like in the earlier months, months where she when she wanted him _constantly_. He thinks back on it and hopes they didn’t scar Henry for life, what with the racket and the disappearing constantly. And the nights he was at a friend’s…well, Killian’s never looked at the dining room table quite the same since.

 

Or the kitchen counter.

 

Or the stairs.

 

But in the last month or so, it’s been different as her discomfort has become constant and she’s shied away from his touch. So her request now – her demand, really – raises his suspicions.

 

“Perhaps…what brought this on?”

 

“You don’t want me?”

 

“No!” He shoves the blankets out of his way, reaching for her and gently cradling her cheeks between his palms. He kisses her softly, his fingers threading into her hair, but she’s not having it and pushes him away.

 

“Emma….” Her name is a sigh, and he’s scrubbing his hand over his face wearily. “I just am trying to understand how-“

 

“It’s supposed to help with labor. I’ve tried the rest of it. I’ve tried the walking. I’ve tried the spicy food. Nothing. Your son won’t budge. And I am so bloody tired of being pregnant that I need this kid out. I read that sex will help. So, let’s go.”

 

He can’t help the small smirk, because he’s noticed she’s picked up some of his expressions, some of his words, and to hear her telling him she’s _bloody tired_ of anything is endearing.

 

“Are you _laughing_ at me?” she demands, and now he knows he’s in for it, because he loves Emma, he does, but these pregnancy hormones have made her prone to emotional reactions he’s never seen a hint of in his love before.

 

“No, love, I…” He sighs again, gesturing toward their bedroom. “As you wish.” He can’t believe that he’s not particularly looking forward to this as he follows her up the stairs, can’t believe that the thought of sex with Emma under any occasion is not appealing, but when she’s like _this_ , surly and with a purpose that has nothing to do with enjoying one another…

 

She tugs the shirt (his shirt) she’s been sleeping in over her head, and Killian can’t help himself. He stares. There’s something about her body like this, about the curve of her belly swollen with a product of their love for each other, it makes her beautiful no matter how deeply she scowls at him.

 

“Come here,” he says gently, holding out his arms to her after stripping out of his pants, leaving himself as exposed as she is. It’s been awhile since he’s been able to hold her like this, skin to skin, and just feel her heartbeat under his palm.

 

She goes to him reluctantly, but she sighs as his arms close around her, his fingers trailing over her back in a way he knows she finds soothing. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles into his chest, her own arms coming around his waist. “I just don’t want to be pregnant anymore.”

 

“I know, love. And we can do this, but...” He trails off, because words are hard these days. He’s always been so good at saying the right thing when it comes to Emma, but he’s not sure there _are_ right words at this stage of her pregnancy.

 

It’s a little awkward, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt her, and in the end, he’s glad they’re doing this, because he’s _missed_ this with her, the two of them in their bed, pressed together, moving together, panting against each other. It’s not the mind-blowing sex they’ve had in the past, but it’s something sweeter, gentler, and he _knows_ that sigh of pleasure from Emma’s lips and is relieved to hear it as he buries his face in her hair and comes undone.  

 

He’s even more relieved when he wakes up a few hours later to damp sheets and a tired but grinning Emma. “My water broke,” she announces triumphantly, nudging his shoulder. “Nice work, sailor.”

 

He grins back, pulling her closer for a kiss. He hasn’t been through this before, but he watched David lose his mind while his wife was in labor, and he knows enough from what Emma has told him about having Henry to know this moment of peace and calm before the storm is worth treasuring.

 

And a storm it is. Liam throws their quiet life into chaos, and it’s exhausting, and Killian begins to forget what sleep is, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

 

He’s thirty-four and he finds himself staring at an engagement ring in a shop window while out running errands with Henry.

 

The boy follows his gaze, a tiny smile forming that’s so much like Emma’s when she has a secret she isn’t telling. “Are you going to finally ask Mom to marry you?” he asks, and Killian turns to find him grinning. “It’s about time, you know.”

 

“Lad, your mother…” He sighs, his gaze tugged back to the ring in the window, because it’s perfect – simple and beautiful and _Emma_. “She told me once she wasn’t the marrying kind.”

 

“She says dumb things sometimes. You should ask.”

 

Killian laughs, shaking his head and looping his arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Perhaps I will,” is all he says as they walk away. “But you know if we’re not back in time for dinner she’s going to be quite upset with us.”

 

He goes back the next day and buys the ring.

 

It burns a hole in his pocket for days. The boys come down with the flu, one right after the other, and two sick children is hardly the romance to make memories with. He doles out cough syrup and Advil and tissues, takes turns with Emma sitting with their miserable children, and falls into an exhausted heap beside her once the boys are asleep.

 

But when they both wake clear-eyed and fever-free, he tucks the ring into his pocket before leaving to go to work, kissing Emma’s cheek with a shiver of anticipation. He has a plan, and the kids are feeling better, and he’s going to ask.

 

Henry’s right. It’s a question far past due.

 

The house is curiously quiet when he comes home. He finds her surrounded by blankets and tissues on the couch, a half-eaten bowl of soup on the coffee table, and his heart sinks.

 

He sets the flowers down on the table, tries to soothe her, but she’s hot, and feverish, and she doesn’t want to be touched. She pushes him away, but her hand grazes his pocket and his eyes close with disappointment because he wanted to do this _right_.

 

“Killian?” she asks softly, her eyes wide with wonder as her hand falls away. Her gaze darts to the flowers on the table, then back to the very obvious outline of the box in his pocket. She’s exhausted, and sick, but she’s still as beautiful now as she was when he was eighteen and David was warning him away from his lovely sister.

 

“Darling, this was supposed to all go a bit differently.” He chuckles reaching into his pocket. He carefully opens the box, the dim light catching the diamonds. “But I suppose we’ve always done things our own way.”

 

He lowers down to one knee, and she’s staring at him from her burrow of blankets on the couch, not saying a word. It makes him nervous, but he plows ahead anyway, because this is something he _needs_ to say. “I’ve loved you since you were fifteen. I’m going to love you forever. Marry me, Emma.”

 

She nods through her tears, sniffling away as he slides the ring onto her finger. She kisses him, and he savors it, the feel of her soft lips on his, the knowledge that she is _his_ forever, but he can feel the heat in her skin.

 

She scowls at him as he moves away, dumps her cold soup and makes her tea, which he forces her to drink while he holds her in his arms, stroking her hair and talking quietly. It’s not the first idea that pops into his mind when he thinks about a kid-free engagement night, but he doesn’t care – he has everything he needs in his arms.

 

The medicine makes her sleepy, and he carries her to bed after she falls asleep on the couch, smiling to himself as she curls into the pillow, her left hand close to her cheek.

 

The diamonds wink back at him in the moonlight, and he feels like he’s finally learned their secret.

 

He’s thirty-five on their wedding day. They get married on the beach by the house, and he’s proud beyond measure to have David as his best man, Henry and Liam in matching tuxes rounding out the party.

 

But it’s Emma he can’t take his eyes off of, Emma who seems to float across the sand toward him in a dress of white silk that hugs her curves, her loose hair caught by the breeze and swirling around her. It’s another memory burned into him, the happiness and love he sees in her and feels in his bones.

 

He can barely say _I do_ without his voice shaking, and there are tears in her eyes when he bends to kiss her to the cheer of their family and friends.

 

He doesn’t quite know how they made it here – madly in love, passionate about each other as ever, with two beautiful children and a home and a _marriage_.

 

She’s the love of his life, and it’s been a windy, bumpy road to where they are now, but he wouldn’t trade any of it. He was eighteen when she made herself a home in his soul (when she carved him out a place in her heart it would take her years to admit was his) and she’s never left.

 


End file.
